Grass Window

The breeze borrows your veil. Snaps it like a curtain.
You ask for soap, but are handed a can 
of ash. You brush it into your hair.  
Those brown eyes had not been closed 
in time, and now they are coated  
with crumbs of earth. A spray 
of seeds. A thatched mask with a beak of reeds. 
Latch the shuttered fields, ask for a basket 
and receive a bucket brimming with suds, 
a dry sponge dusted with 
a blinding crust of salt.
Ducts absorb the settled flecks. The glass streaked 
with dark as you cry mud.